At ten-fifty-five, I’m in the waiting room to my father’s office. When the house was built I think it was some sort of sitting room, where the ladies would go and sew after dinner while the men drank and smoked cigars and enjoyed themselves, but now it’s where Mason sits, his spine ramrod-straight, as he taps away on a keyboard and tries not to act uncomfortable about being alone in a room with a woman.

Though alone is a strong word. The door to the hallway is open, meaning that any of my family members could walk in at any second, not to mention that my father and my new bodyguard are right next door. But it’s not very hard to make Mason uncomfortable if you’ve got breasts, no matter how well-hidden.

Even his girlfriend Lilah, who’s quiet and demure and almost painfully sweet, seems to make him a little nervous every time he remembers she’s female.

So it’s really easy for me, the family harlot, to make the poor kid sweat. If I’m being honest, I kind of enjoy it. I couldn’t be less interested in him, but it’s nice to know that I’ve got some kind of power over someone here, no matter how small and insignificant.

The intercom on his desk beeps at five after eleven. Mason clears his throat.

“Yes, Senator?” he asks, his voice a little higher-pitched than normal.

I force myself not to smile.

“Please send my daughter in,” the voice says.

“Yes, sir,” he responds, and stands. He straightens the cuffs on his Oxford shirt, not making eye contact with me, steps out from behind his desk, and holds the door into my father’s office open.

“Thank you,” I say, and repress the urge to wink at him, just to see what he’d do.

“You’re welcome,” he squeaks, and then the door shuts behind me.

And I stop dead in my tracks.

The hungover whiskey-catcher from this morning is sitting in one of the leather chairs opposite my father’s desk.

He’s wearing a suit and tie, looking confident and cocky as fuck, like this is his house and the two of us just happen to be in it.

It’s a good look on him. If I’m being totally honest, hungover wasn’t a bad look on him, because even though he was practically gray this morning he still had those intense blue eyes, the dimple in his chin, the superhero-comic jawline, and muscles.

Lord help me, the muscles. Even in a suit, the muscles.

I look away first, glancing at my father. I don’t think Gabriel knew who I was this morning, but what if he did? What if he’s just spent the past hour telling my father that he saw his eldest daughter buying vodka at eight in the morning while caring for a toddler?

I’d never see the light of day again, that’s what. At best, I’d be in the basement until the election was over and he could quietly toss me out onto the street. At worst, he’d send me to one of our church’s re-education camps for wayward women.

Neither of us says a word.

“Mr. Kane, this is my eldest daughter Ruby,” my father says, holding out one hand in my direction, addressing Gabriel first. “Ruby, this is Gabriel Kane, your new security detail.”

Gabriel stands. I fold my hands in front of myself, smile as sweetly as I can, and walk toward him. We shake hands and I break eye contact first, looking demurely at the floor as his big, rough hand envelops mine.

It’s the hand of someone who knows how to use them, who does things with his hands. For all my father’s talk of a return to traditional values, his talk of men who are men and women who are women, all the men I know have soft hands and gentle handshakes.

But not Gabriel. When I shake his hand, there’s a weird twinge, deep down inside me.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Burgess,” he says politely. There’s a hint of a twang there, and I wonder where he’s from.

“Thank you so much for coming all this way, Mr. Kane,” I say softly. “And please, it’s Ruby.”

“Likewise, I’m Gabriel,” he says.

We sit. I keep my back straight, knees clenched together so tightly it would take heavy machinery to pry them apart.

Please don’t tell my father, I think, over and over again. I’m thinking it so loud that I’m not even listening to what they’re saying, just politely watching the conversation, a sweet, innocent smile on my face.

That, at least — smiling sweetly while everything inside me is going straight to hell — I’ve mastered. I’ve had plenty of practice, after all.

Gradually, my heart stops pounding. They’re talking about security detail stuff: entrances and exits to the property, my schedule, how he’ll interface with other security at my father’s campaign events. Gabriel’s not telling my father oh, by the way I saw her buying hard liquor this morning with a toddler in tow. At least, not yet he isn’t.

We’ll see how this all shakes out.

The worst part is, I knew it was stupid and I did it anyway. I was helping my younger sister Grace run some errands in town, and she asked if I’d go return a book to the library for her. She had her baby, Emma, with her, so I offered to take Isaac with me to keep him out of her hair.

Grabbing the vodka was an impulse. My father’s got a campaign rally the day after tomorrow, my attendance is mandatory, and in the past few months I’ve discovered that they’re considerably easier to get through with a little liquid help.

But my biggest fear was that Isaac, who’s almost two and mostly talks about his favorite kind of bear and whether there are sharks in any given body of water, would somehow tell his parents all about our side trip with crystal-clear recollection.

Grace wouldn’t be happy about it. We’d get into a huge fight, that’s for sure. If her husband Tim found out, he might go to my father, but Grace wouldn’t. Even though she’s the perfect daughter, the happily-married stay-at-home mother with two children at age twenty-four, she wouldn’t tell my father.

Gabriel’s a wild card, though. Just because he hasn’t yet doesn’t mean he won’t. He might still think that his job is actually security and not surveillance, because my father’s a smart man and won’t come right out and say I’ve hired you to keep close tabs on my daughter and chaperone her everywhere.

The voters wouldn’t like that. They’re traditional and conservative, but not that traditional.

“You’ll be living in the carriage house,” my father is telling Gabriel, whose expression hasn’t changed. “I’ve taken the liberty of having some aides unload your car and unpack your suitcases, so please, make yourself at home. It’s not a large dwelling, but I think you’ll find it adequate.”

His face stays perfectly blank, even through the revelation that my father’s employees have gone through his things. I’m impressed.

“Thank you, sir,” he says. “That’s very kind.”

My father stands, signaling that the meeting is drawing to a close. Gabriel and I stand as well, and he buttons a button on his suit jacket. I glance over. Even though the air conditioning is on, I can see a bead of sweat trickle into his collar.

And then I imagine things: that single droplet, running down the skin of his shoulder and his back, coursing over the thick muscles, making its way downward. I imagine him without his suit and tie on, shirtless, sweaty, outside in the yard lifting something heavy —

“Ruby will give you a quick tour of the main house, and you two can become acquainted,” my father says.

I swallow and force myself to stop thinking about Gabriel shirtless. I have no idea what’s gotten into me, because as strange as it sounds, I’ve never done that before.

“That sounds wonderful, sir,” Gabriel says.

“Of course, father,” I chime in, the sweet smile still frozen on my face.

“Excellent,” he says, and shakes Gabriel’s hand again. “Looking forward to working with you, and God bless.”

We turn and leave. Gabriel holds the heavy door for me, and I duck my head as I walk through, the perfect sweet, innocent, meek daughter. When it shuts behind us we’re alone in the hall for a split second, but then there’s a noise from the other end and one of my younger brothers, Zeke, walks in.

I introduce them. Zeke is only eighteen, gangly and lanky, and though he’s the tallest man in the family at nearly six feet, Gabriel’s still got a couple of inches on him.

I also like Zeke. He’s the only other one who’s ever stood up to my parents, and though it’s only been about inconsequential stuff so far — being allowed to wear shorts outside when it’s hot, quitting piano lessons because he hated them — it makes me feel like I’ve got some kind of ally, even if it’s my dumb little brother.

He walks off, and then we’re alone again, in the hallway outside my father’s office, and Gabriel looks down at me, half a knowing smile on his face.

“All right, I’ll make you a deal,” he starts.

“You should be sure to keep your voice down in the house,” I say, looking up at him with my sweetest, most innocent face. “Sound travels in strange ways because it’s so old, so it’s easy to disturb others unintentionally.”

I wait to see if he’s picked up on what I’m saying. After a moment, his eyes narrow. He nods.

“Of course,” he says, his voice quiet and just a little gravelly. “My apologies.”

“Come on,” I say, my smile frozen in place as relief trickles through me. “I’ll give you the tour.”

* * *

The tour comes with a history of both the house and the Burgess family, who have owned it since it was built back before the Civil War. Back then, this was the townhouse, where the family only spent a few months of the year — most of the time, they were out on their plantation, several miles away.

They sold the plantation during the depression. The building is still there, but it’s now a corporate retreat center, surrounded by a massive soybean farm.

“It must be nice to have roots that go back so far,” Gabriel says as we walk down a massive staircase, into the entry hall. It’s not quite like Gone With the Wind, since this is only the townhouse and not the plantation, but it’s still impressive.

“Yes,” I agree. “It’s really wonderful to feel so strongly a part of my home, with all its history, culture, and my family.”

It’s a rehearsed response.

“This is the main entry way,” I say, gesturing at the massive front doors. “It was built to impress guests, so right now, we mostly use it when my father is hosting events in the home. The family and staff use the kitchen and side doors much more frequently, since they’re a little less onerous.”

The front doors are each at least ten feet tall, and getting them open is a task.

“Of course,” Gabriel says.

I show him the rooms on the ground floor. They’ve all been modernized, though this floor is still fairly formal: living room, dining room, sunroom. Even the kitchen and family room are conspicuously clean, thanks to my mother. She runs a tight ship.

I introduce Gabriel to everyone else who’s here: my mother, my brothers Daniel and Paul, my sisters Pearl and Joy. Everyone is perfectly polite, stiffly courteous, ready with polished and canned answers to nearly anything he could say.

He compliments my mother on her beautiful home. He asks my siblings what grade they’re in, whether they play sports, that sort of thing.

Finally, we head outside. The heat hits us like a warm, wet blanket as we cross the carefully-manicured lawn, and I take a deep breath of the humidity, my heart hammering again, because now’s the time.

“Sound carries much less easily out here,” I say. “So you don’t need to worry about disturbing anyone.”

I slow my pace. He matches me and looks over, his hands in his pockets. Another bead of sweat trickles down his neck and I force myself not to think about where it might be heading.

“All right,” Gabriel begins. “Now that we’re out of earshot, I propose a deal.”